Glass Onion
by Olivia Doyle
Summary: Sydney was calculated, sensible, bitter, and pained. Maxwell was spontaneous, fun, and irresponsible with a loud mouth and a heavy heart. When sad events push them together, will they be willing to peel off the hardened layers and see what's underneath?
1. She's Leaving Home

The ancient brick building loomed in front of the young woman scarily, and she bit her lip, nausea welling up in the pit of her stomach. She glanced back down at the tiny, fluttering paper slip in front of her.

"I guess this is it, then," she muttered under her breath, walking into the building, so nervous about the meeting to come that she barely even noticed the seven flights of stairs she had to climb before finally reaching the battered doorway that marked her destination.

She took a deep breath, letting it out in a short puff and squaring her shoulders as she prepared herself for what was inside that...that place-- but just as her knuckle was about to rap on the door, it flew away from her and a young man with shaggy blonde hair haphazardly stumbled into the doorway, his head turned into the apartment as he laughed.

"Ha, you guys are nuts, you know that? Shit, I gotta get to work, I'll see you--" his blue-grey eyes met hers, and she sucked in air quickly, shocked out of the slight trance she had been in earlier.

"Well, hello there little lady. What can I do ya for?" he asked smoothly, jerking his head up, and she twisted her palms together anxiously.

"I...I'm looking for Sadie?" she asked tentatively, and the man nodded, gesturing for her to follow him as he walked back into the large apartment.

"Hey, Sadie... Sadie? Hey Sadie, I didn't know we were getting another tenant," he called out, passing a table full of people; they eyed her curiously, and she nodded in response.

The woman in question walked out of her bathroom in a silk robe, drying her long, curly hair and looking confused.

"But Max, baby, we aren't get..." she trailed off as she took in the prostrate girl in front of her.

"Sidda? Sidda-honey, is that you?" she asked tentatively, towel forgotten on the floor, and the girl nodded, her hand over her mouth as she tried to control the sobs that were escaping her lips. There was a moment of silence where neither woman said anything and Max was just about to ask what the hell was going on when Sidda's eyes rolled back into her head. Her hand fell to her side as she crumpled, and Sadie pushed Max unceremoniously out of the way as she rushed to reach the girl before she hit the ground.

"What the hell?" Max asked, unable to hold in his question any longer as he lunged to her side, helping Sadie grab her before she hit the floor.

"Oh Sidda, honey," she said softly, completely ignoring Max's question as she helped lift the girl up a little more.

Seeing that he wasn't going to get an answer anytime soon, Max rolled his eyes and hoisted her up a little so that he could get a better grip.

"Jude, a little help out here?" he called out, struggling to keep the dark-haired female off the hardwood, and the Brit walked in with an affable smile, which quickly disappeared as he took in the scene in front of him.

"What the hell happened, Max?" he asked after he had helped to lug the girl on the decrepit sofa, and Max shook his head, giving a sidewards glance at the couch and their landlady next to it.

"I don't know man, she just came in askin' for Sadie, and then they met and then Bam!" he gestured frantically towards the form slumped across the upholstery, shaking his head and running a trembling hand through his hair. "That."

Jude's focus drifted over to their landlady, who was rocking back and forth on her heels, her arms around her knees and her face at eye level with the girl's. She brushed back a stray piece of the sleeper's dark chestnut locks with a sigh before turning her head to the two men standing at the doorway.

"Tell the boys to cancel my gig tonight," she said, looking back at the cherubic face before her. "I have some business I have to take care of."


	2. Fixing A Hole

Disclaimer: Only Sydney belongs to me, the rest is Beatles history. (It's from Across the Universe, you see)

Live. Laugh. Love. Review.

-Livvy

* * *

On February fourteenth, nineteen-fourty-three, in the tiny town of Vera, Georgia, Sydney Anne Elanor was born. 'The best Valentine's day present your mother ever had from your deadbeat daddy,' according to her aunts.

It would be the only holiday Sydney ever spent with her mother--three weeks later, Valerie Elanor was shot dead, killed by the very same man who had given her the tiny child at her side, asleep. She had died quietly; no pomp, no circumstance-- just a bullet and bloody sheets and a crying baby.

After the funeral, she had been taken in by her aunts; Tia Nina and Aunt Sadie, the guardians of her world, the protectors of her life and heart; the two people she knew she could always count on to be there for her, no matter what. The two women who would never leave her side, never abandon their little Sidda-honey.

Until Sadie ran away, fleeing their tiny house in Vera to go to New York City to pursue her dream of becoming a singer.

Sidda had been left alone. Again.

Would it strange to start taking it personally?

Our dear Sidda pondered that for over fifteen years; and finally, she came up with an answer.

But that's a story for another time.

Sidda grew up to be just like her Aunt Sadie-- vibrant, precocious, with a big voice and pretty face; and just like the woman she had hardened her heart towards, all she ever wanted to do was sing. But, unfortunately (or, fortunately, depending on how adventurous you are), Sidda also had her Tia Nina in her; the practical, dark-haired princess of domesticism, who spat cookies and common sense at an almost alarming constancy. Sidda had inherited her sensibility unlike her red-haired Aunt; and so she shelved her dreams of Broadway and glory with a heavy-hearted determination.

Dreams were a funny thing, Sidda decided. They were made for some people to follow, to chase but never grasp, she reasoned; and some people to just hold, carefully and delicately, like precious china that one buys but never uses in order to leave its beauty unmarred.

And so she found a job at one of Mr. P.T. Barnums Wild West shows-- a traveling job, to be sure, and she would have to wear a ridiculous costume and pretenc they were back in the god-knows-when-- but they would let her perform, let her sing and dance, and while it wasn't much, she knew she could make a living there.

So our heroine packed her bags and raced across the country, with the wannabe cowboys and rodeo clowns and her own version of her dream.

Of course, our story would not be complete without her falling in love; which she did with startling promptness, quickly and deeply with a young and foolish bullrider who liked to call himself "Rocky Raccoon"-- who, unfortunately was hopelessy in love with another woman named Magill Richards, who even MORE unfortunately was irrevocably in love with an equally moronic stagehand named Desmond Jones.

It was a relatively unpleasant circumstance had by all, to be sure-- and it was made even more unfortunate soon after with the drafting of our not-so-dear-friend Rocky. He had been called to serve his duty, and no amount of pleading from Sidda could dissuade him from the idea of fighting for his country.

And so Rocky left, and Sidda pined, and Magill and Desmond lived sort-of-happily-ever-after as stagehand and stagehandess; all was peaceful, the conflicts resolved, and everyone was happy for a little while.

Until Rocky returned, back from the his oh-so-heroic service and missing a finger, a soul, and whatever common sense he had previously (which, honestly, wasn't all that much either). The wounded, broken man walked into B-set's farcical saloon, a gun in his hand and a glint in his eye-- both pointed directly at your friend and mine, Desmond Jones.

Fortunately for Desmond (although not so much for dear Sidda's loverboy), he was an arrogant, self-centered ass who believed that he should not only have a weapon, but keep his gun on him to be prepared for any fools who would dare to challenge his fearless and great self. And so he was prepared, as only that kind of moron could be, and shot Rocky between the eyes before the bull rider was even able to unbuckle his holster strap.

And as the man she loved lay dead on the floor, blood seeping into the vinyl hardwood as Desmond was dragged out by the police, she knew-- she could not recover from this shock alone. She needed a place to lay her head, heal her heart, make her forget that she had just seen a life snuffed out, right before her eyes.

And as she walked up the stairs to her mock 1850's room atop the saloon, she realized what she needed to do.

She needed to visit Aunt Sadie.

And so here she was, lying on a couch with a throbbing headache, with her last show paycheck and a train stub against her bare skin, listening to her dear, misguided, deserter of an aunt try to get a straightforward explanation from Tia.

She opened her eyes cautiously, afraid of the effects of the light; heartened by the lack of pain, she opened them all the way, blinking a few times tentatively. Her eyes roved over the giant, well-furnished apartment, across the lean figure of her aunt and around the room to the blonde man who had let her in and one of the people from the table. Their eyes met, and the blonde man's widened.

"Oi, Sadie, she's alive!" he hollered out, and her aunt rushed to her side, hanging up the phone without even saying goodbye.

"Hey baby-girl, how you feelin?" Her voice was soft and concerned, and Sidda tried to smile, wincing as she sat up, hand to her head.

"Wha..What happened?" Her red-maned aunt brushed her hair out of her face with an easy smile.

"You fainted, sugar."

"Again?"

"Fraid' so."

There was a slightly awkward silence as each became accustomed to the other's presence; the eldest was the first one to speak.

"Honey, Nins told me about Rocky. I'm so sorry, baby, I should have tried to find out what was going on, should have called and been there for you--"

"No. Really, it's fine. You have your life here that you have to worry about. Besides, Rocky was just being stupid-- he deserved to be shot, pulling a gun out on Desmond, it's his own damn fault, really."

She felt a sharp pain in her chest. She knew it hadn't been his fault-- he had come back from Vietnam crazy, shell-shocked-- he probably hadn't even realized the consequences of his actions until the bullet hit him. And she couldn't blame Desmond, either; even she would have killed Rocky if he had come at her like that.

The whole situation was just one big nasty mess; and so she left, pinning an emergency leave form on the door of the manager's office and leaving without any goodbye's. That chapter of her life was over now, left behind along with her room and her comfort, and she was glad.

She was done with the Wild West. It was time for the Big Apple now.


End file.
